Adjusting to the Sick Role
by PenguinTimes
Summary: "Fifteen, Jewish, cancer. The definition of the pity case that is Kyle Broflovski."
1. I have cancer

**Okay so I should totally be writing chapters to my other two stories instead of starting a new one... SorryNotsorry  
These may be quite short chapters as some are meant to be viewed as blog posts, and others as background and all the other filler to kind of puffle out the story. I'm also planning to write a prequel in the future, maybe when Kyle is first diagnosed or something.  
Thank you for reading, and I promise you my everlasting adoration if you review!**

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Fifteen, Jewish, cancer. The definition of the pity case that is Kyle Broflovski. When middle aged people, the very epitome of prejudice towards teenagers, stand up to offer me their seat on the bus, I know it is not because they believe in being polite to all citizens whether they be old or young, but because they know of me only as the Poor Boy with Cancer.  
On my more 'rebellious' days, I reject this pitying offer on the pretence that standing for a twenty minute bus ride won't result in my keeling over in a state of near-death, but mostly I just accept.  
After all, it is my role as the sick person- to act ill, and allow for the rest of society to treat me accordingly.

I suppose in a totally cliché way, we are all dying. A counsellor once told me that, in response to the popular phrase, no time is 'borrowed'; that we are all here to serve a purpose whether it lasts 16 years or 60.  
Ignoring the cheeseyness factor, it is a thought that makes me feel somewhat better, accepting the idea that I have made some type of impact on the Earth and will continue to do so until my no-doubt untimely death.  
It all started when I was ten years old; with weird bruising, nosebleeds, and blood test that landed myself in the oncology unit at Hell's Pass Hospital. With the diagnosis of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia and it's treatment also came years of being treated differently- all for this damn sickness. When cancer or death jokes are made on TV, I often find that my family and even friends will look to me before reacting to them, whether positively or negatively. I am expected to somehow be offended, but I guess I never have been. The assumption that I require to be treated like some porcelain doll is far more aggravating than the jokes themselves. You have to understand, reader, that I am not a one-trick pony. The ability to spurt copious amounts of blood from my nose at random intervals is not my only hobby, and when I'm not having toxic medicine pumped into my bloodstream I also enjoy reading, and the odd pluck of a guitar string or six. At some point, I am hoping that people will come to the sudden realisation that I am Kyle, A student and musician (cancer), not Cancer (Kyle). If that makes sense.

I guess that a little background information is in order, or this waffling about how my life sucks will quickly become dull.  
As previously mentioned, I was diagnosed with ALL at the tender (or not so much in my case) age of ten, at which point I was promised that _surely_ I would be one of the 80-90% of patients whose bodies are forced into complete remission with treatment.  
But, as always, life doesn't tend to work out as promised, and although I had a period of remission when I was 11 ½, I relapsed a while back and shown little sign of recovery since.  
At our last meeting three, my oncologist -Doctor Blake Dahl if anyone happens to care- suggested that I move onto a more aggressive course of chemotherapy, and sent me along with the final words of 'Give it some thought- it's your cancer after all'. That's what I like about Dr. Dahl, the fact that he's always made it clear that my body is my own, and because the treatments for cancer are often threatening in their own right, I should be the one to make the choices of what drugs are pushed into me, what hazardous gamma rays are used to damage the evil evil cancer cells.  
At this point, anyone who knows my mother can probably guess that this is not the frame of mind she wants me to be in- her counterargument has always been that as a family we fight the cancer together and as my mother she should also have a say in the strength of my treatments. Of course, she does not mean this in the literal sense. She is not the one whose body has to work overtime to replace the good cells -e.g. my infection battling leukocytes- destroyed by the chemo, she is not the one who has to lie still on a cold table in a hospital gown with a tight mask over my face to protect me somewhat from the harmful rays during radiotherapy.  
But, in the figurative sense, I suppose my mother has a point by stating that we face my illness as a family. She quickly gave herself he role of Chief Executive of Kyle's Life; driving me to and from appointments, controlling my diet, telling me when I can and can't go outside, and being at my beck and call whenever infection does get the better of my tired body. I guess I can't expect anything less of her.  
My father, despite being an esteemed lawyer, most definitely does not wear the pants in the relationship. While he would be happy for me to go out and hang with my friends like a normal kid does, any disagreement to mom he may have quickly ends with his backing down. It's annoying, don't get me wrong. But it kind of works.  
Ike, my adopted kid brother, is the one who'll crack inappropriate jokes when I'm feeling most crappy, sneaks me fries and other unhealthy foods that are usually banned from my diet, and doesn't kick up a fuss when I get the attention and he is left to his on devices.  
In all honesty, it could easily present itself as the obvious scenario- overbearing mother, cowardly father and the second-born (kinda) who lives in the shadows of his sick older brother. But Ike plays his part with good humour, and uses it to the advantage of being able to get away with everything and anything because his brother has cancer. Aside from my family, I also have a few friends who keep me going, but more on them later. Right now I'm tired -one of the side-effects of becoming cancer free- and just about ready to crash for a while.

Signing off,  
Kyle Broflovski, the cancerous teenager

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**Good, bad, not worth continuing? Pleeeease let me know in the form of a review (I know it's cheeky begging for them but y'know, I could totally be doing school work right now instead). Please keep in mind that I am fortunate enough to have limited experience with leukaemia (and American spelling) so it may seem a little stupid at times.  
Thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Stan

**Alrightio, firstly... Thank you for all of the reviews, some were positive, some not so much... But constructive crit is always good, and I appreciate you all for taking the time to leave me a few words.  
I just want to clarify, the reason Kyle comes off as so professional is because he spends a good deal of time reading because he's perhaps not able to go out and do the things the average teenager would. I purposefully gave him an air of intelligence around his blog writing to show that he _is_ an intelligent kid and that was just my way of portraying this (:  
Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!**

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Stan was so used to the protocol that now paired with visiting his best friend that it was almost second nature to scrub his hands raw, using a brush under his freshly-clipped nails. His clothes, straight from the drier, smelled subtly of washing powder, and his hair was still a little damp from the shower he'd taken not half an hour ago.  
The raven-haired boy smirked to himself as it occurred to him that he wouldn't make as much effort even when he was getting ready to take Wendy on a date- but Mrs. Broflovski demanded that if he was to see Kyle, he had to soap the crap out of any germs that could be residing under his fingernails, ready to attack, her red-headed baby the moment they saw him.  
Despite having to spend at leas five minutes at Kyle's sink armed with a scrubbing brush, Stan always looked forward to seeing his best friend, and after being carefully scrutinised by Sheila he was finally allowed upstairs.  
Closing the door behind him, Stan tossed his sick friend a jumbo bag of Cheetos from his backpack, flopping down next to him on the bed.

"Man, I'm surprised your mom hasn't started frisking me for contraband yet." Kyle smirked weakly, sitting up in bed and closing the book in his hands.

"Give it time, she's having dad draft up a defence for when you take her to court for anally probing you." He joked, wrapping his cosy hoodie further around his shoulders. Stan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"It's good to see you again dude; wish I had something interesting to tell you, but..." He trailed off.

"Let me guess... Cartman's still an ass, Kenny's still a player, Wendy's still a bipolar bitch?" He guessed. Stan was drawn between laughing again or telling him not to talk about his girlfriend that way. But he could hardly deny that she wasn't difficult as hell to please, so he shrugged instead.

"Got it in one. You been up to much?" In retrospect, Stan was never quite sure why he always asked this, when he knew that all of Kyle's energy was taken up by everyday chores such as showering and swallowing down whatever organic vegetable Sheila had steamed that night for his dinner.

"Oh, you know... Finding the solution to world hunger, running marathons in aid of Oxfam. The usual."

"Ah, of course. Well, if you can find time in your busy schedule..." Stan reached into his bag, pulling out a somewhat-crumpled stack of papers. "I brought you some more work, lucky bastard." Kyle reached forward and flipped through the pages. Math, Biology, Physics... English?

"Stan, I'm not doing your assignments for you." He stated flatly. The raven-haired boy looked sheepish, shrugging.

"Hey, worth a shot right?"

Kyle hadn't been to school in a while. Partly because he was, frankly, too exhausted to even make it from one class to the next most of the time. Mostly because his mother thought that if he stepped foot into the institution for even a second, he'd either catch pneumonia or be crushed by a wave of his classmates. Or both.  
Although he never admitted it, he missed the regularity of school. Everything was so predictable- you study, you get good grades. You do something embarrassing, you get laughed at. You sit in class, bald and sickly, everyone looks up to stare at you.  
Kyle never really minded people staring at him. He knew that he was an irregularity, so no one quite knew how to react to him. Only his closest friends ignored the fact that he was pretty much staring death in the face, and treated him as he wanted to be treated- like a normal person. He didn't want pity, nor the sympathetic looks his peers all seemed to give him in the corridor.  
But he accepted that they'd continue to pity him, and would continue to look at him like that. And in a way, he missed it. Nothing in his life had been 'normal' for five years now, but school helped him regain a small sense of identity that seemed to be stripped away with every chemo treatment. He could be known as the genius kid despite-being-off-sick-all-the-time rather than the cancer kid.

When they were together, Kyle and Stan spent most of their time playing on his Xbox, laughing at each other's jokes, and Stan filling him in on anything interesting that might have happened during Kyle's absence.

"When do you have chemo next?" Stan asked, trying to keep his tone casual. His sick friend raised his brow- they rarely talked about his cancer.

"Uh, couple of days from now. Why?" Stan shrugged.

"Just wondering. Did you get your results from your bone marrow biopsy?" Pausing the game, Kyle put down his controller.

"Dude, why the sudden interest? We never talk about cancer stuff."

"I guess... It's just such a big part of your life. Doesn't it bother you that I never ask about it?" He thought for a moment. Did he mind?

"Well... I guess it's good for you to know how I'm doing and all that crap, but no, it doesn't bother me. If anything major happened in terms of my cancer, I'd just drop you a text or something. Maybe send you a smoke-signal, whatever." Stan shook his head, a small smile tracing over his lips.

"Yeah, sure." They resumed the game, only speaking to berate the other's COD skills. A couple of hours later, Stan picked up his rucksack and headed towards the door to head home.

"Stan?" Kyle called. The other boy turned to look at his tired friend.

"Yeah?"

"My bone marrow biopsy showed more cancer cells. It's getting worse." Stan's gaze dropped to his feet and he nodded, before slipping out of the door and closing it behind him.

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**I was supposed to be writing another chapter to Thicker than Water, but every time I went to close this document and get on with it I just wrote some more instead... Guess I'm more in the mood for Cancer Kyle than Daddy Kyle~  
Also, I keep referring to Ky as 'the redhead' as I do in most of my fics- only he isn't supposed to have hair in this one, so please ignore it if I do!  
Thanks so much for reading!**


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